Sleeping With the Dead, page 2
part #8 of Reverend Paltoquet Mystery Series
“Au revoir,” said Nigel, as he watched the two men retrace their steps up the beach.
He continued to sit, wiggling his toes in the warm sand, mulling over their meeting. Of all the people to bump into in Blackpool, he thought. Strange couple. He didn’t think young Oliver would like them very much.
When Robbie had first suggested that he and his friend Bernard should have a holiday by the sea, he had thought of asking his housekeeper Lucy to come too. Then Bernard could ask Dorothy Plunkett, their mutual friend, but who preferred Bernard to Robbie, romantically at least. Bernard was shy and unsure of his feelings towards her and their relationship, such as it was, hadn’t really ever left the starting post. Dorothy, who was living in Exeter taking care of an ailing father who refused to do the decent thing and die, would probably have found it difficult to get away for as long as two weeks, so neither Lucy nor Dorothy were invited in the end.
So here they were at the end of their first morning in Blackpool, and Robbie pondered on how they were likely to while away their fortnight’s holiday. He had plenty of ideas, being a red-blooded male surrounded by scantily clad females as far as the eye could see. Bernard, however, seemed more or less immune to their charms, or extremely myopic.
Returning to the Sunnyside Guest House after their meeting with the Reverend Soames, they were now standing in the middle of the dining room, scanning it for a suitable table.
“I don’t know about you, old boy, but this place is beginning to give me the creeps,” said Robbie suddenly.
The sun poured into the room, highlighting the pristine white cloths and sparkling silver of the cutlery.
“What on earth do you mean?” said Bernard, astounded. “This looks very nice to me. I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable. Shall we sit at that table by the window?”
“Good idea,” said Robbie. Without further preamble, he strode over to the window table and sat down. Bernard followed him meekly and did the same.
“You don’t seem in a very good mood, Robbie,” he said. “Why do you say this place gives you the creeps? We only got here this morning. I know seeing old Nigel on the beach was a bit of a facer, but we don’t have to fraternise with him if we don’t want to.”
“Sorry, old boy, take no notice of me. Just for a minute there, I felt something cold come over me. The feeling’s gone now. Like someone walked over my grave.”
Bernard smiled. “Let’s hope not, Robbie. It’s the start of our holiday, and I, for one, am determined to enjoy myself. I hope you’re not going to start seeing ghosts again.”
Robbie MacTavish was a good family practitioner, popular with his patients, and full of Scottish charm when the mood took him. Although born in Edinburgh, he had lived most of his life in England after his parents came to London when he was barely six months old. He really had no trace of a Scottish accent, but he liked to turn it on whenever a likely young woman took his fancy. That was quite often, being a bachelor, and he knew the Edinburgh lilt got them every time. He didn’t bother with the accent otherwise, and he certainly never wasted it on Bernard.
They had been firm friends ever since their first meeting shortly after the Second World War when both men had just moved to Wandsworth to take up their respective positions of responsibility there: Bernard as the vicar of St Stephen’s and Robbie as the local GP. Since then they had encountered several strange mysteries involving not only murder, but psychic phenomena as well. Robbie, in particular, seemed to have a gift in that direction, although he didn’t go out of his way to use it. He was frightened of it, if anything.
The dining room was beginning to fill up now, and a young waitress was already taking orders. As she arrived at their table, Robbie turned on his charm and Scottish accent simultaneously. She was very pretty.
“Och, lassie, that’s a fetching apron you’re wearing,” he said. Bernard squirmed in embarrassment. He loved him dearly, but why did Robbie have to pounce on every likely looking female like that?
The waitress blushed and smoothed the frilly white apron under discussion. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and this old man with the funny accent seemed to be making some sort of a pass at her. She regarded him closely for a moment. He was a strange phenomenon, but she presumed he was still able to walk about and breathe unaided. Robbie, being forty-three years of age, had no difficulty in performing either of those functions; neither did Bernard, being ten years younger, although still very old in the eyes of June Smart.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, deciding to take the compliment about her apron at face value for the present. “Now what would you like for starters?” she asked, pencil poised over pad.
Bernard shut his eyes and fervently hoped Robbie wasn’t going to suggest ‘herself’. “Now, what do you recommend, lassie?” was all he said however. Bernard opened his eyes again.
“The soup’s the safest option,” she told him.
“What sort is it?”
“Brown Windsor,” she said.
“Two Brown Windsors, then, followed by the plaice. I think, Bernie? It’s always good to have fish at the seaside. Usually much fresher than what you get in London.”
Bernard was more than happy with his friend’s choice, and was relieved when June moved on to the next table. He leaned across the table and shielded his mouth with his hand.
“I wish you’d stop talking to the young ladies in that suggestive manner, Robbie,” he whispered fiercely. “Especially those young enough to be your daughter. It’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Bernie,” he laughed. “It amuses me. It doesn’t do any harm and it brings a bit of joy into their lives.”
“I don’t think you brought much joy into that girl’s life,” observed Bernard. “She was looking at you as if you were mad.”
Robbie was secretly hurt by this. All right, so he wasn’t getting any younger, but he was still a fine figure of a man with all his own hair and teeth, and most women liked him. “That landlady, Ivy, she likes the look of me, I can tell you that,” he said in marked disgruntlement.
Mrs Conway had greeted Robbie and Bernard on their arrival and shown them to their rooms in the absence, as usual, of the porter. Now in her late fifties, the scar down her left cheek was a visible reminder of her traumatic past. Robbie hadn’t taken exception to her looks as most people had, probably due to his medical training; he had even been able to see that she would have been quite a good-looking woman once upon a time. But, as he followed her up the stairs, he realised he didn’t much like her, and he didn’t think that was entirely due to her disfigurement.
“Yes, I agree. She did seem to take to you,” said Bernard, now happily slurping his soup. “I got the impression she didn’t like me much though.”
“Did you like her?”
Bernard stopped mid-slurp and thought for a moment. “Hmm, well, I hardly know the woman, Robbie,” he said.
“No, I know. But did you though?”
“Well, she’s not very er - nice to look at ...”
“Did you like her?” Robbie thumped the table, causing the waiting cutlery to dance a little jig, and some of their soup to slop about.
“No, I didn’t! Happy now?”
“Yes, old boy, quite.” Robbie began to slurp his soup too.
That same evening, the two friends were again in the dining room for their evening meal, which had been served to them as before by the lovely June. Robbie refrained from making any suggestive comments this time, mainly because her apron was the same one she had worn at luncheon, and there was really nothing new to say about it. Bernard was grateful for that.
When the jam roly poly had been despatched, they sat for a short while, smoking their pipes in companionable silence. Eventually, they decided to have an early night. After their long train journey that morning, they were both tired and ready for bed.
As they approached their rooms, Robbie became thoughtful. “Did you get a strange sensation just now?”
Bernard turned and looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“As we were passing that room, I felt that feeling again – the one I had earlier this afternoon. You know – like someone walking over my grave.”
“Oh, Robbie, you’re imagining things,” said Bernard, slightly annoyed. Why did his friend have to start spoiling their holiday so soon? Did he expect to be able to get another place to stay at the height of the holiday season?
“I’m not, I tell you,” said Robbie, annoyed as well. “It was just as we passed room eight at the corner there. I felt a shiver go right up my spine.”
“For goodness sake,” said Bernard, giving him a friendly nudge. “You’re just tired. You’ll feel fine in the morning after a good night’s sleep. You’ll see.”
“I tell you, Bernie, there’s something weird about this place. I don’t like it.”
“All right, if you say so. I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”
With that, Bernard carried on down the corridor to his room. Robbie followed slowly, deep in thought. There was something not right about the whole place, he could feel it, but he could understand how his friend felt too. To him, this was a nice, friendly, cosy little guest house. But to Robbie, well, it was all of those things, but only some of the time.
He came to his own room, number twelve. There was that feeling again, but even more pronounced now.
Monday, 18th August 1957
The Vicarage
Wandsworth
Dear Your Reverence
I hope your enjoying your holiday in Blackpool and that the weather remains fine. All is well here apart from my corns are acting up again. And old Mrs Galsworthy’s husband is in bed with his leg again. You remember him, don’t you? You went to see him last week when Mrs Galsworthy rang to say he was dying. It turned out he was nothing of the sort, you said. A lot of men have trouble with their backs you know. Trouble getting them off the bed and out to work if you ask me.
Your cat is being a nuisance as always but not to worry as I am feeding him fit to burst. He bit the heads of a couple of the hollyhocks yesterday, dont know what got into him. Made him be sick all over your study hearthrug. I had a terrible job cleaning it up but I think I got most of it up. Smelt to high heaven I can tell you.
Lucy sends her regards to the doc, but she said she wont write to him herself as she hasnt got the time. You should tell him that shes not happy he never asked her to go with him. I hope hes behaving himself anyhow. Cant keep his eyes off the pretty girls that one. Nor his hands neither I shouldnt wonder. I never told you this vic but he even pinched my behind when I bent to get something out of the oven. Not that I complain. I like a bit of slap and tickle myself – it makes a change for me being not as young and fresh as I used to be.
Now I must close. Hope this finds you as it leaves me.
Yours very truly
Nancy Harper
September 1918: Blackpool
Ivy Conway surveyed her features in the dressing table mirror, something she never tired of doing. She sometimes had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming; to have the face of an angel and the body to match was good fortune indeed, but no more than her due, of course. Lennie, her husband, not long back from the war front, was sitting up in bed watching her. If she had taken the same amount of time to study his face as she had her own, she would have read there something bordering on the dangerous. But Ivy was very rarely aware of anyone else’s feelings; she was used to being the centre of everyone else’s universe, and Lennie, as far as she was concerned, was very lucky to have her for his wife.
“Why d’you keep looking at yourself, Ivy?” he grumbled, drinking his lukewarm tea. “You know you’re a corker and can outshine any woman in a roomful of film stars.” He said this as if he were accusing her of poisoning his tea instead of complimenting her on her beauty.
She patted her hair and turned to look at him. It was a pitiful look. “Are you going to lie there all day?” she said harshly. “We’ve got a houseful, you know, and Esme can’t cope all on her own. It’s enough that I have to do most of the cooking while Stan’s away, without you lying there feeling sorry for yourself. The war’s over, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“You might remember that I’ve just been fighting in that bloody war, Ivy, defending King and country – you included,” he said angrily, clattering his teacup back into its saucer. “I get nightmares all the time, and headaches like you wouldn’t believe. It’ll take me years to come to terms with it. Something happened to me out there that you will never understand if you live to be a hundred. Life’s not all about looking like a painted doll, you know. And, while I’m on the subject, I don’t like the way you keep flirting with all the men. I won’t have it, you hear?”
Ivy stood up and turned first left and then right, checking both sides of her profile in the full length mirror. “Will I do?” she said, raising her skirt just a little so he could see her shapely ankles. It was as if he hadn’t spoken.
“Did you hear what I said, Ivy?”
“Yes, yes. Keep your hair on. I have to be polite to the paying guests as you don’t even pass the time of day with them. Do you want us to lose our livelihood?”
“I do my share, don’t you fret. I just deserve a bit of a rest after what I’ve been through. You heard what the doctor said, didn’t you? He said I wasn’t to overdo it. I had to take it easy. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“You’ve made ‘taking it easy’ into a fine art,” she said, looking once again at her perfectly shaped face in the mirror. Her clear blue eyes looked particularly bright and alert this morning, and her hair was behaving itself for a change. Her crowning glory was the only thing about her appearance that kept letting her down. The colour was just right, being a warm and attractive honey-blonde, but it was very fine and flyaway, and needed lots of setting lotion to keep it in place. But today, at least, it looked immaculate.
Lennie Conway had never expected to survive the war. Every time he heard a ‘whiz bang’ he covered his head and knelt down in the trench. He raised his head when he heard the explosion a distance away, but each time it happened he lost a little bit more of his essential being. It had needed no weapon of war to kill him; psychologically he was dead already. The thought of his lovely wife, waiting for him back home in Blighty, had kept him going through the dark days, the mud, the gore, the sight of dismembered limbs and the screams of the other soldiers and the horses. He soon realised there was no point in making friends with any of his comrades in arms; he knew that if he grew to like anyone too much, that person would be blown to pieces in front of his eyes sooner or later, usually sooner.
But, against all the odds, here he was back at home with Ivy, invalided out two months before the armistice was declared. He had been pleased to see that the guest house was proving a going concern; he had to admit that Ivy had done a good job keeping it going in his absence. Blackpool seemed to be a magnet for people wanting to escape the aftermath of a war to end all wars. But the bonhomie, the revelry, the incessant jollification of the Sunnyside guests got on his nerves. There was something determined and gritty about enjoyment these days, as if you had to try hard to be happy, as if it wasn’t a natural emotion for human beings anymore. Ivy, however, seemed genuinely happy, hardly touched by the devastation and misery all around her. It was probably because she was a self-centred bitch, he thought bitterly, with no imagination and no more sensitivity than a gnat.
One day, he thought, she would try his patience just that little bit too much. She would go just that little bit too far for him to ignore it any longer.
August 1920: Blackpool
Elmer Smallpurse liked to think of himself as a man in the prime of life. Of course, it all depended where you thought your prime was in the circle of life. Elmer’s years were fifty in number, but he wore them well enough. His wasn’t an obese man, but there was a definite thickening around his waist and another chin was forming below his original one. But these things didn’t bother him. His hair was conspicuous by its absence, but that didn’t bother him either. He sported, rather than merely wore, a synthetic red toupee, courtesy of Silas Olyphant and Sons, Wigmakers, of New York City, his hometown. Elmer Smallpurse wasn’t handsome, but his face was pleasant enough. His little twinkly black eyes were friendly and warm and those meeting him for the first time generally liked him, even if they tended to regard him with mild amusement. Elmer, unaware of the impression he made, thought of himself as the epitome of chic elegance and joie de vivre.
It was a hot August morning when he tipped up outside the Sunnyside Guest House. The cab driver planted his bags beside him, and tipped his cap. Elmer Smallpurse didn’t live up to his name: in fact he was well known for his generosity, particularly when it came to tipping. Wherever he went, wherever he put up, he made sure the bellhops, waitresses and cab drivers received handsome remuneration for their little services. As a result, he was a popular guest in most corners of the globe. And he was a well-travelled man.
This was only his second trip to England, however. His first had been to London the previous year. Now he was honouring the north of England with his presence. Dining one evening with a travelling salesman, he had been told that he hadn’t lived until he had walked Blackpool’s Golden Mile and seen the Tower. Elmer, on the contrary, had thought he had lived very much indeed, but was always open to suggestions. So here he was on the front steps of Ivy Conway’s establishment for the ‘discerning paying guest’, as it told him in gothic lettering in the main front window. He had toyed with the idea of staying at one of the more grand hotels on the seafront but, although he could certainly afford it, he preferred to stay in places where he could soak up the real atmosphere of a place. He wanted to meet the genuine working people, those that lived by the sweat of their brows, not the idle rich. He had enough of them back home.
As he entered Sunnyside, his eyes beheld the right profile of the young lady behind the reception desk, and was at once enamoured. A more beautiful woman he hadn’t seen in all his years of bachelordom, roaming the globe. Many women had pleased his eye in the course of his perambulations; and he had wined and dined a fair number of them. However, looking at Ivy’s profile, he could honestly say he had yet to meet someone to beat her in looks, except, perhaps, Theda Bara.
